


Flagrant Indecency

by chaos_monkey



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Desperation, Embarrassment, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Frottage, Geralt Does Not, Jaskier Has Hangups(TM), Kink Discovery, M/M, Omo Thirst Trap Jaskier, Omorashi, Pissing in Public, Watersports, Wetting, public urination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:48:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23971099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaos_monkey/pseuds/chaos_monkey
Summary: Jaskier's got an important gig to get to in Beauclair Palace, but the unfamiliar city causes a few... problems.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 113
Kudos: 313





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is all [slippery_soak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slippery_soak/pseuds/slippery_soak)'s fault for showing me this [omo Tumblr prompt](https://omowritingprompts.tumblr.com/post/617015414558507008/not-making-a-prompt-out-of-this-since-i) which I promptly (lol) did the opposite of and wrote this instead.

“You’re lost.” 

“No, no I am _not_ lost, I know exactly where…” Jaskier trailed off, biting his lip. He’d really been sure this was the right way. You could _see_ the bloody palace from anywhere in the city, he hadn’t thought it would be so difficult to actually _get_ to it. “Exactly where we’re going. Yes. We just should have gone left at that last intersection, that’s all. I’m sure of it.” 

“Hmm.” 

Geralt didn’t look convinced, but he followed anyway as Jaskier hurried back the way they’d come, desperately hoping he was right this time. The thought of being late today was a terrible notion, and one that almost distracted him from the other reason he would really, really prefer to get there sooner rather than later. 

They reached the cross-street after only a few minutes, and Jaskier chewed on his lip again as he paused, still not entirely sure this was the right way at all, despite what he had told Geralt. The streets here curved in unexpected ways due to the fairly steep hills Beauclair was built on, and he really didn’t want to take yet another wrong turn. If he’d known how long it was going to take to navigate through the city, he really would have stopped to see to certain bodily demands earlier, before it had become this close to urgent. 

“You have no idea how to get there, bard,” Geralt growled beside him. “And what the fuck is wrong with your leg?” 

Jaskier gulped with a little squeak, his cheeks flushing as he realized he’d been unconsciously jiggling his leg. “Nothing. Nothing, I’m just— I’m eager to get to the Palace, of course. This is an opportunity of a _lifetime,_ Geralt, they don’t invite just any old hack to perform at the Midsummer Festival. And the _wine,_ there are _ballads_ written about the wines which we are about to sample.” 

Geralt looked thoroughly unimpressed, and the thought of drinking anything at all right now was a huge mistake that sent an instant pang of need through Jaskier’s belly. “This way. I’m certain of it, we’ll be there before you know it,” Jaskier said, wincing and hurrying forward. 

“You’ve said that already. Five times,” Geralt said, shooting Jaskier an odd look and looking even grumpier than usual. Which was saying something. 

“Nonsense,” Jaskier said airily; or tried to, the low but incessant pressure throbbing in his bladder making him a little too tense to manage ‘airy’. He did love being back in civilization again, but there was something to be said for travelling on roads where one could simply… step off to the side to relieve oneself without fanfare or fuss, and _oh_ that would be wonderful, but Jaskier really had to think about something other than how utterly fantastic it would feel to take a piss right now, and— 

“Fuck this,” Geralt said, and Jaskier kept going for several steps before realizing Geralt had stopped off to one side of the cobblestone road. 

“What? No, we can’t give up now! We’re so close, once we get over that bridge we’re _there_ and— Geralt, what… what are you doing?” Geralt just grunted without looking up from unlacing his trousers. “Geralt, you can’t— It’s the middle of the day! This isn’t some filthy little town with dirt roads covered in horse shit, you can’t just _do that_ here wherever you feel like!” Jaskier hissed. 

“Watch me,” Geralt said, and Jaskier felt himself go beet red at the sidelong, vaguely disgusted glances of passersby as the witcher pulled out his cock, tilted his head back with a deep groan of unmistakable relief, and let go. In full view of _everyone._

For once at a complete loss for what to say, Jaskier opened and closed his mouth helplessly a few times, the hot flush of embarrassment spreading through him from head to toe. Embarrassment, and a pure, searing _envy._ He knew he should stop _staring,_ but he couldn’t manage to tear his eyes away, despite the sight and the sounds of Geralt pissing onto the stones at his feet making Jaskier’s own predicament suddenly feel a thousand times worse. 

“ _Fuck,_ ” Geralt half-muttered and half-gasped, reaching out a hand to lean heavily against the wall in front of him. He actually _shuddered._ Jaskier hadn’t thought it was possible for someone to piss even harder than Geralt had already been doing, but somehow the witcher managed it, the splashing noise of liquid hitting stone obscenely loud and setting Jaskier’s pulse throbbing hot through his midsection along with it. 

The rapidly growing wet patch and the little rivers of piss flowing downhill in the cracks between the cobblestones _taunted_ him, until Jaskier was seriously beginning to consider joining Geralt in his flagrant indecency— but at a loud scoff, a muttered comment, and a shocked, derisive giggle from a pair of young women walking by, Jaskier decided he really wasn’t _nearly_ desperate enough to be reduced to such lows yet. Especially not when he had an image to protect, today of all days. 

He was still staring longingly what felt like an age later, though, when Geralt’s stream finally slowed to a trickle interspersed with occasional harder spurts as the witcher visibly tensed to push the last of it out with a soft, slightly unsteady sigh. Once it finally stopped, he gave himself a couple of quick shakes to flick the last drops off— and something got briefly crossed in Jaskier’s mind at the sight of Geralt with his cock in his hand and that almost _blissful_ look on his face. With a strange, sinking jolt as he watched Geralt tuck himself away again, Jaskier belatedly realized his own dick had taken a definite, inappropriate, and somewhat disconcerting interest in events, and had stiffened up in his trousers while he watched without him even noticing it. 

“What?” Geralt asked, and Jaskier jerked his eyes guiltily back up to Geralt’s face, finding the witcher fixing him with an amused half-smirk and looking _decidedly_ more relaxed than he had a few minutes ago. “I wasn’t going to fucking piss myself just because you got us lost.” 

“You’re wasting time and I’m already going to be late. Would it have killed you to show a little  _ decorum  _ for once and just fucking hold it?” Jaskier snapped. Before Geralt could do more than raise a surprised eyebrow in response, Jaskier turned on his heel and stormed off up the road, embarrassed and frustrated and unsure whether he was more irritated with himself or Geralt at that moment. 

Not to mention more than a little perturbed by his own degree of unexpected… fascination with what had just happened. He’d unavoidably seen Geralt peeing many, many times while they traveled, and never thought twice about it. It had certainly never affected him like _this_ before. He was still shamefully hard, his cock twitching against his leg at the image burned into his mind, the fresh memory of the way Geralt had been standing, feet wide and hips forward; the groan of… of _pleasure_ he’d made when he let go, his quiet sighs of relief and the way his cock had looked in his hand while he pissed. 

It was simply because he was used to watching Geralt work a hand over his cock in _very different circumstances,_ Jaskier told himself, firmly enough that he could almost believe it. That was all. 

And at the very least, he reasoned, the erection took some of the edge off the slowly increasing throbbing in his belly, as well as distracting him a little from being incredibly jealous and more than a little bitter about how much better _Geralt_ must feel now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's going to be at least one more chapter to this, depending how carried away I get.  
> (You didn't really think it was going to be as easy as just finally making it to the palace for poor Jaskier, did you? ;) He hasn't squirmed nearly enough yet)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (oops, the chapter count went up...)

Geralt shrugged to himself and followed Jaskier up the road. He was a little confused about the way the bard was acting, but feeling so much better after finally letting off all that pressure that he couldn’t summon the energy to worry. It was likely just pre-show nerves. For all the bard’s typical bravado and posturing, Geralt had learned that even Jaskier suffered from occasional performance anxiety. 

… Though only when it came to his music. 

Hiding his smirk and wishing yet again that they were still on the road instead of… _here,_ Geralt eyed the palace perched up on its hill as they walked, easily keeping up with Jaskier’s hurried pace. He really didn’t like being in cities, particularly large ones. They were too cramped, too enclosed, making him feel constantly on edge; as though he might be ambushed at any moment. And the sheer amount of _humanity_ around him was nearly overwhelming. It made his skin crawl; the sounds of so many overlapping voices, the confused, muddled scents, both pleasant and wretched, all mingling together into one big sensory mess that made it difficult even to pinpoint Jaskier’s voice and scent amidst it all. The absence of his armour in addition made it even worse. 

At least the rundown inn they would be returning to when the evening was through was on the very outskirts of the sprawling city, with stables that smelled much more familiar and comforting than the city itself. They’d only stopped long enough to stable Roach before Jaskier had insisted they had to get moving or be late— only to promptly get lost in the winding streets of Beauclair. 

Geralt had been quietly hoping that Jaskier would give up and they could just skip the whole event. But to his slightly guilty disappointment, this street actually did bring them to the foot of the long bridge arching up from the city to the castle itself. Jaskier was practically dancing with impatience as they finally made the long trek across the ravine below, and… oddly quiet. Normally he would be regaling Geralt with tales of the city, of the people who would be at the party and all the gossip he knew about each and every one of them. Not that Geralt ever knew— or cared— how much of it was actually true, but the lack of Jaskier’s near-constant chatter was a little disconcerting. 

“Are you alright?” Geralt finally asked as they neared the other end of the bridge, shooting Jaskier a sidelong glance. 

Jaskier looked over at him and… _twitched,_ eyes darting down Geralt’s body and immediately away again. “Yes. Fine. Of course I’m alright, why wouldn’t I be?” 

Geralt frowned. Up in the slightly clearer air above the city streets, he was finally able to sort out Jaskier’s familiar scent. The bard smelled… anxious, first and foremost. That was slightly unusual; normally Jaskier’s bubbly excitement outweighed his nervousness. The man was nothing if not cocky about his talent. 

And under the slithering anxiety was a strange, subtly acrid mix of embarrassment and something panicky, all of it tinged faintly with… lust? 

Geralt came to halt, even more confused now than he had been when he couldn’t smell the bard at all. “Jaskier, what—” 

“I said I’m _fine,_ ” Jaskier snapped, not stopping; and for some reason that smell of embarrassment spiked sharply as he walked away. 

Geralt followed him in silence, wondering irritably as they passed between the two guard posts at the very end of the bridge just what the fuck Jaskier’s problem was. 

* * *

Jaskier heaved a quiet sigh of relief as he finally stepped off the bridge, very much looking forward to finding the nearest privy and feeling more than a little guilty about snapping at Geralt like that. He would have to apologize for it later. 

Pushing down the nervous jitters, adjusting his lute on his back, and putting on his bright, relaxed performance smile, Jaskier led the way up the flamboyantly decorated walk and into the grand entrance foyer. A harried looking manservant was standing near the entryway with a scroll and quill, and Jaskier headed over to him. 

“Ah! Good day to you on this very fine afternoon,” Jaskier said, ratcheting his smile up a notch and adding a polite nod for good measure. “I wonder if you might direct me—” 

“You’re late.” 

“— to the… I’m sorry?” 

The man nodded at the lute slung over Jaskier’s shoulder. “The other entertainers have already begun. This… man is your guest?” he asked, looking up from his list to shoot a slightly distrustful look at Geralt. 

“Yes— yes, guest and bodyguard,” Jaskier said, keeping his smile bright despite the manservant’s frosty tone and the quietly insistent dull throb in his own belly. “One can’t be too careful these days! There are those who are jealous of my rising fortunes, after all. Why, just last week—” Jaskier cut himself off, reining in his own story as the man’s already sour expression grew nearly dark enough to rival even Geralt’s most displeased frown. “Of course, you must be quite busy. I shall take my leave at once, if you would be so kind as to tell me where—” 

“The ballroom is immediately through the main hall. And I shouldn’t dally any longer were I you. Her Majesty is not impressed by tardiness.” He shot Jaskier and Geralt one final look down his very prominent and rather unfortunate nose before pointedly turning his attention— and an ingratiating, transparently insincere smile— to a small group of nobles who had just entered behind them. 

Geralt had that unperturbed, lazily sardonic smile on his lips, the expression clearly saying he would be just as happy to leave as to stay at this point. Jaskier was briefly tempted to turn on his heel and go right back the way they’d come, but contented himself instead with rolling his eyes the moment he’d turned away from the insufferable manservant and the little cluster of nobility. He wouldn’t let this put a damper on his evening, and the man _did_ have a point. Jaskier normally made a habit of being only fashionably late, not… _late-_ late. 

He strode off down the main hall, putting as much of his usual spring in his step as he could. Unfortunately— but unsurprisingly— there was no sign of a convenient garderobe anywhere along the way to the ballroom itself. Any such facilities were likely to be tucked away somewhere in the back corridors of the palace, and he couldn’t very well be presented and immediately disappear without so much as a dirty limerick. People would notice. 

That was fine. All he had to do was ignore the heavy, hot pressure in his midsection and be visibly present long enough to entertain, entrance, and make sure no one cared about such trivial details as whether he had shown up a bit late or not. Once he had made the rounds and impressed the most important people in attendance, then he could slip out back, find his relief, and return. No one would so much as bat an eye. 

It wouldn’t be a problem, Jaskier told himself, bowing with a grand flourish and a bright smile as he was announced at the door. He was a professional, a grown man, and _perfectly_ capable of waiting just a little longer. In any case, performing never failed to distract him from the petty concerns of the mundane world. 

He would be fine. 


	3. Chapter 3

Geralt sighed, leaning back against the cool stone wall and wondering yet again what in the Continent had possessed him to come to this ridiculous event in the first place. 

Then he snorted, tossing back the last of his most recent glass of wine with a grimace and ignoring the slightly scandalized look from a woman standing nearby. He knew _exactly_ what had possessed him to come to this ridiculous event, and it was currently prancing about the room strumming a lute and flirting brazenly with every pretty man or woman in attendance. 

Or at least, that’s what Jaskier would normally be doing. Geralt didn’t think it was obvious enough for anyone else to notice the increasingly forced edge to Jaskier’s smiles or the tightness in his posture, but the bard had definitely been acting a little… off. Ever since Geralt had finally stopped to relieve himself down in the city, he realized, now that he thought about it. 

Geralt felt another twinge of both guilt and annoyance at Jaskier snapping at him for something he’d really had no choice in. He _had_ fully intended to wait until they reached this blasted castle where he could find the nearest privy, but that had been before winding up very literally on the verge of pissing himself before they even made it to the fucking bridge. 

None of that explained why Jaskier was  _ still  _ acting oddly, though. 

Suddenly uneasy, Geralt frowned as he watched Jaskier flit to a new group with a not-very-extravagant bow. It couldn’t have been more than an hour since they’d been informed they were late by the door attendant— Geralt honestly didn’t see why it mattered, there were performers of all kinds scattered about the massive room, surely one wouldn’t have been missed all that much— but Jaskier still didn’t look like he was enjoying himself. In fact, he looked even more ill at ease now than when they’d arrived; slightly… distressed, even; but hiding it. And despite extolling the virtues of Beauclair wines for the past week solid, Geralt hadn’t seen him have more than a single glass so far. 

That was _definitely_ unusual for Jaskier, and Geralt’s frown deepened as he studied Jaskier more closely. He hadn’t been drinking, and yet his face was flushed, his forehead beaded with sweat. His movements had grown noticeably choppy as well, lacking the effortless, languid grace he normally had when performing. Geralt knew it well— he’d wondered to himself many, many times how someone so graceful on the stage could be so consistently clumsy off of it. 

His unease growing, Geralt put his empty glass down on the window sill and started slipping through the crowd towards his bard. 

* * *

The distraction of performing worked just as well as Jaskier had hoped. 

… Possibly a touch _too_ well. 

For all the gloom-and-doom attitude and sour disapproval of the doorkeeper, Jaskier found himself very well received from the off. The familiar excitement of the show— not to mention the adulation of the partygoers as he moved from group to group— gave him something to focus on other than the pressure in his bladder, allowing his need to recede to a dull, steady throb on the edges of his awareness that he was, mostly, able to ignore. 

Until a sharp bolt of heated pain cramped his midsection out of nowhere, that was. Thankfully, it happened just after Jaskier had bowed his way out of one group, rather than in the middle of a song, but it was bad enough that he couldn’t _quite_ manage to stand up straight for a breath or two. 

“Should _not_ have had that wine,” he muttered under his breath, taking a moment to get his bearings in the massive ballroom and feeling a hot flush prickle uncomfortably over his face and neck. He hadn’t actually intended to drink at all until _after_ seeing himself out back for a short break… But the wines here were so very good, and the couple who had invited him to share a drink with them had both been _so_ very pretty and giving him the kind of looks that made it clear they’d like to share more than that with him as well— not that he’d had any intention on following through on that unspoken offer, of course, not without Geralt anyway— and Jaskier simply hadn’t been able to say no. It had only been one glass, after all. 

Unfortunately, with his already achingly full bladder, that one glass had hit him _rather_ harder, and much more quickly, than he’d anticipated. 

It took a moment scanning the large, crowded room— during which the hot prickly flush spread down his back and turned into a hot prickly sweat— but Jaskier first located the main entryway and then finally spotted the small, unassuming exit opposite that almost certainly led to the back hallways he so desperately needed. 

He was almost as far from that exit as it was possible to be. Because of _course_ he was. 

Taking a deep breath and hoping his expression wasn’t set in the strained grimace it felt like, Jaskier threaded his way through the throngs of people, trying to avoid meeting anyone’s eye without being overtly rude. He made it a little over halfway across the immense ballroom before he was accosted by a group of already-drunk nobles, one of whom was gushing quite profusely to his friends about Jaskier’s talent. 

Praying to every god he’d ever heard of, and to a few that he made up on the spot as well, that _he_ wasn’t about to be gushing profusely in a very different way, Jaskier broke out the shortest rendition he knew of the requested song. While performing, at a markedly quicker tempo than he normally would have, he did at least manage to maneuver himself a short ways in the direction of his goal. He finally left the group behind with a spinning little flourish, a wince, and a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as he surveyed the distance left and the sheer volume of _people_ still between him and the exit. 

Another pang of need cramped his belly, this one intense enough to draw a gasp from his throat and make him hunch in on himself. Jaskier stumbled to a halt and leaned against a pillar, the cool stone on his back helping to calm the panicked flush of heat prickling again over his skin. It was so bad he had to consciously remind himself that he absolutely could _not_ jam a hand into his crotch to squeeze his dick in a desperate bid for control, not here, not in front of… _everyone._

“Fuck,” he whimpered quietly, as another cramp burned through his gut. The doorway was still so far away, the heat and the noise seemed to be growing, the people and the swirling colours suddenly nauseating, pressing in all around him— it was all too much, he was _never_ going to make it, and he needed to pee so badly it _hurt—_

“Jaskier.” 

“ _Geralt,_ ohthankfuck,” Jaskier gasped. Geralt had materialized out of the crowd at his side, the witcher’s familiar presence instantly calming. 

“Are you ill?” Geralt asked, looking more than a little concerned. 

Jaskier shook his head, cheeks heating in a blush as he wondered if he looked as bad as he felt. 

“No— no, I’m fine,” he said, and he could hear the strain in his own voice. He nodded towards the back exit he’d been heading for. “I just… I need to get out of here. Right now.” 

Geralt looked entirely unconvinced— Jaskier could hardly blame him— but after one more searching look, he grunted, turned, and strode towards the exit without question. Taking a deep breath and trying to force himself to relax the white-knuckled death grip he had on his lute, Jaskier followed in Geralt’s wake. He tried his best to maintain some hint of decorum and not bounce on his feet _too_ overtly; but mainly he was just incredibly glad of the witcher’s ability to make people move instantly out of the way simply by virtue of his hulking presence and a single threatening glare. 

_They were almost there._

Jaskier repeated it to himself like a mantra as they drew closer to the exit. He’d held on this long. They were almost there. He could make it just a little further, he _could._

He _had_ to. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There might actually be 5 chapters to this btw, depending how the next chapter finishes shaping up ;)


	4. Chapter 4

The moment they were alone in the corridor leading off the back of the ballroom, Geralt stopped and pulled Jaskier to a halt with him. 

Jaskier… _whimpered,_ the sour, skittering smell of panic rising off him in thick waves that had Geralt getting ready to pull his sword out then and there. 

“What’s going on, Jaskier?” he hissed, watching for anyone following them out. “Did someone threaten you?” 

“What? No! No, nothing like that,” Jaskier said. That wash of embarrassment rolled off him again and he winced, trying to tug his arm out of Geralt’s grip. Geralt held on. “I have to— look, I have to _pee,_ alright? Really, really, _really_ badly! So if you would kindly _let me go_ before I piss myself right here—” 

His voice cracked as he yanked his arm free, the flush in his cheeks deepening as he glared at Geralt. 

After a second of dumbfounded shock, Geralt snorted a laugh. “That’s all? Bloody _hell,_ Jaskier, I thought you were in danger!” 

“It’s not _fucking funny,_ Geralt,” Jaskier snapped, though the effect was undercut by the frantic whine in his voice at the end. “It _hurts,_ and I don’t know where— I need to find—” 

“Okay, it’s okay,” Geralt said, his amusement disappearing again almost instantly in the face of Jaskier’s genuine distress. The bard was hunched pathetically in on himself, shifting from foot to foot, and looked like he might actually be on the verge of tears. “Come on.” 

They’d only gone a few steps down the corridor, heading away from the noise and bustle of the party behind them, when Jaskier jammed a hand into his crotch with a whimper, squeezing himself through the thick fabric. He didn’t stop walking, though. 

“Why didn’t you just _go,_ earlier?” Geralt finally asked, watching with a mixture of worry and bemused exasperation as Jaskier hobbled along beside him. And with… more than a hint of something else that he was trying to ignore. Because he really should _not_ be getting turned on by the sight of Jaskier flushed and squirming, holding himself tightly enough for Geralt to see the shape of his cock through his trousers. Not when Jaskier was clearly so upset by it all. 

“Well I wasn’t going to just go in the _street_ like _some_ people, I thought I’d be able to when we got here! But then I had to start, and I thought it would be fine, but I didn’t expect— I should have left earlier, I know, it just— _fuck,_ no no _no—_ ” 

Jaskier stumbled to a halt with a panicked whine, meeting Geralt’s concerned gaze with a wide-eyed, pleading look as the unmistakable smell of fresh urine filled the air. 

Geralt’s eyes darted down to Jaskier’s crotch before he could stop himself, to the outline of Jaskier’s cock under his clutching hand. It couldn’t have been much before Jaskier got himself under control again, because the bard’s pale blue trousers still _looked_ completely dry… but Geralt’s cock gave an definite twitch of interest at the knowledge that they _weren’t,_ that Jaskier had just wet himself a little bit. Right in front of him. 

Pushing that away to be examined later, when Jaskier wasn’t in fucking _pain,_ Geralt forced his gaze up again. “Come on. We’re almost there,” he said gruffly, giving Jaskier an encouraging nudge and holding onto his arm with one hand to let the bard lean on him. 

In truth, he had no idea whether they were or not, but it seemed to help. Jaskier hurried along beside him, increasingly desperate whimpers welling up in his throat. Twice more, he stumbled to halt with a whine of panic, and twice more, Geralt knew Jaskier had wet himself again and guiltily ignored his own growing arousal. It was particularly hard to do that the second time, when a coin-sized wet spot darkened Jaskier’s trousers over the tip of his cock— but Geralt dragged his eyes away, pretended not to notice, and kept the bard moving down the hallway. 

* * *

“ _There,_ oh thank the _bloody_ gods,” Jaskier yelped, shoving his lute at Geralt and half-running for the wooden door at the end of the blessedly short side corridor. 

He was already fumbling at the ties of his trousers before he got there, only pausing long enough to yank the door open and dart inside— and then he just stood there tugging futilely at the laces that had gotten well and truly knotted in his haste to untie them. 

“No— _no,_ damn you, _why,_ ” Jaskier wailed, tears pricking at his eyes and blurring his vision. He squeezed his thighs together, hopping and squirming and all but dancing in place— but it didn’t help. His breath hitched in a sob as another spurt of piss soaked his already dampened smallclothes; and that was it, he couldn’t get his trousers open or even push them down, so after all that he was going to piss himself right here in the fucking privy and everyone was going to see him and they would all _know—_

— And then Geralt was standing behind him, strong, steady hands pushing Jaskier’s own gently but firmly away. Before Jaskier had time to do more than draw a startled breath, Geralt had snapped the offending laces with one sharp yank and shoved his trousers down far enough to pull his cock out for him. 

The moment the cool air touched Jaskier’s already-wet cock, his body gave in, an uncontrollable burst of piss spraying out of him and splattering down over his pant leg, one boot, and the floor before Geralt even got him aimed properly. It sputtered in and out a few times, but quickly settled into a hard, steady stream as Jaskier finally let go fully with a long, low groan of pure relief, gooseflesh prickling up his back and over his scalp from the sudden, dizzying headrush. It felt _unbelievably_ good to finally pee, all that awful pressure and tension draining away; good enough that Jaskier’s knees went weak and wobbly, leaving him sagging limply in Geralt’s arms. 

Good enough that it was only as the gushing stream started slowing down what felt like an age later that Jaskier realized he had not only just let Geralt hold his dick for him while he _pissed,_ he had also started stiffening up in the witcher’s hand while he did. 

Mortified, Jaskier hastily reached down to nudge Geralt’s loose grip off his still-pissing cock, the familiar sensation of both their hands on him together making the stream sputter out briefly and sending a flush of confused arousal shivering through him. 

“Thanks,” Jaskier muttered, clearing his throat and awkwardly shuffling forward to let Geralt slip out from behind him, closing the door softly with a creak and a dull thump of thick wood. 

Between being more than halfway to hard for reasons he wasn’t entirely clear on at the moment and feeling almost unbearably self-conscious about the whole bloody incident, it still took some time for him to finish. The tender state of his poor overstrained bladder didn’t help matters either. Every time Jaskier _thought_ he was done, it started up again a moment later, pee trickling weakly out of him in little bursts and dribbles until he started to wonder if he was doomed to just stand here pissing forever. 

But it did finally end, leaving him still shaky and embarrassed but blissfully empty and _light._ Jaskier quickly refastened his trousers, salvaging the snapped ties as best he could and flushing all over again at the reminder that if Geralt hadn’t helped out, he would _actually_ have well and truly wet himself, right there. His clothes certainly weren’t as badly off as they _could_ have been, but… the darkened wet streaks in the pale blue fabric were still uncomfortably visible. Not to mention uncomfortably damp, cooling slowly and sticking to his leg. 

He couldn’t go back in there and face people; not now, not like this. Not when he was certain they would all immediately _see_ those telltale wet spots and somehow know exactly what had just happened to him; not when he still felt frustratingly fragile, his eyes itching from nearly _crying_ over it all. 

He just hoped he’d made enough of an appearance and an impression that he hadn’t blown the whole thing completely. 

With a quietly miserable sigh, Jaskier adjusted himself one last time and stepped back out into the hallway. He took his lute back silently, not quite able to look Geralt in the face; then without a word, led the way to the front entrance— round the long way, _without_ re-entering the ballroom— and slunk out into the bright, early evening sun, hoping no one they passed in the hallway had noticed the pitiful state his trousers were in. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~I'm sorry Jaskier, you're just too cute when you're frantic~~  
>  I'm making it up to him in the final chapter, though, I promise!!


	5. Chapter 5

  
  


Geralt glanced over at Jaskier, stalking across the bridge beside him as they headed back down to the town. The bard was a picture of abject misery, his shoulders hunched, his face set in an embarrassed scowl and his scent still a prickly riot of shame, frustration, anxiety, and a strangely confused not-quite-disgust that Geralt couldn’t quite place. 

Well, and urine. Not that Geralt would point that out with Jaskier in his current mood. Humans probably couldn’t really smell it anyway. 

“You sure you want to leave?” Geralt finally asked as they stepped off the foot of the arching span and back into the uncomfortably crowded city streets. He really didn’t _want_ to go back, an hour or so had been more than enough for him already. But… “It’s not that bad. I doubt anyone would even notice.” 

“It doesn’t _matter_ if they notice, Geralt,” Jaskier snapped. “It’s— _I_ know what happened, that’s bloody well bad enough.” 

Geralt stayed silent, waiting; and sure enough, after they’d wended their way through the maze of Beauclair’s streets for a time, Jaskier sighed and spoke again. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you, I— Thank you. For… for helping,” Jaskier muttered, irritably kicking at a loose rock as he walked. The oily scent of embarrassment spiked briefly high enough for Geralt to pick it out again despite the muddled stench of humanity that now surrounded them. “I just… You shouldn’t have had to deal with… _that._ ” 

Geralt shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. These things happen.” 

“Well they _shouldn’t!”_ Jaskier burst out, flinging his hands in the air. “It’s… it’s _humiliating._ ” 

Geralt opened his mouth to answer; then closed it again with a confused frown as Jaskier quickened his pace and stomped off ahead, his back stiff. After a moment of consideration, Geralt just gave him his space instead of catching up, though he stayed close enough to be sure he wouldn’t lose Jaskier in the winding streets and the crowds. Once the bard calmed down and the initial embarrassment passed, Geralt reasoned, he would get over it. Maybe even laugh about it. 

But Jaskier didn’t calm down. He only seemed to get worse the farther they went from the palace in the lengthening shadows of sunset, his irritable huffs and mutters floating back to Geralt through the thinning crowds and his stride staying fast and clipped. Save for when he kicked at a stone or bit of rubbish as though each one had personally wronged him, that was. 

By the time they approached the outskirts where their inn was without Jaskier so much as looking back at him, Geralt was starting to get annoyed with what honestly amounted to a tantrum, at this point. 

“Jaskier, what’s the big deal?” he finally asked with a sigh, catching up and looking at his bard quizzically. Maybe being more direct would help. “It’s just piss. Clothes can be washed. You’ve seen me covered in worse plenty,” he added with a wry half-laugh. 

Jaskier didn’t laugh with him, instead sending another innocent rock skittering wildly up the road. “That’s different. _You_ didn’t fucking… wet your pants like a _child._ ” 

That time Geralt laughed for real, snorting loudly. Jaskier glared at him. 

“Oh come on,” Geralt said, shaking his head. “You don’t really think I’ve never wound up pissing myself on a hunt before? It _happens._ ” 

Jaskier’s eyes widened, a renewed flush darkening his cheeks as his gaze darted to Geralt’s crotch and then away. “That’s… it’s not the _same,_ Geralt! That’s outside, for one thing, and in _very_ extreme situations, not just… in public, for no good reason, and in _front_ of people,” he mumbled, fidgeting and forlorn, eyes downcast again. “In front of _you._ ” 

“For fuck’s sake, Jaskier,” Geralt said, exasperated. He hated seeing Jaskier upset like this, but could not for the life of him understand _why_ the bard was making such a fuss over the whole thing. And now he felt even more guilty about how fucking arousing he’d found Jaskier’s squirming and whimpering and— “I said I don’t care. Nobody else even saw. Just forget about it.” 

Jaskier huffed and didn’t answer, staring moodily at his feet and trudging along through the lengthening shadows. That scent of shame was still prickling unpleasantly in Geralt’s nose, growing stronger, though he wasn’t sure if that was simply because the crowds had thinned towards the boundaries of the city. 

“Fine,” Geralt grunted, coming to a halt. Maybe Jaskier would feel better if it wasn’t… just him. If he knew Geralt really did not give a fuck about something so unimportant. “Jaskier, wait.” 

Jaskier stopped, turning to look at Geralt warily with his head cocked and a frown still furrowing his brow. The several glasses of wine Geralt had drank up at the castle had been making themselves known more and more insistently during the walk through the city, and it only took a breath or two for him to relax and let go with a quiet sigh of relief. 

Heat spread through his groin; slowly at first and then in a sudden rush. Piss began running down his legs a scant moment later, hot and fast, soaking rapidly into his trousers. Geralt couldn’t help the low groan that welled up in his throat, nor the shiver of relief that ran through him. It seemed he had to go a little more badly than he’d realized, and— well, he’d admittedly never pissed himself quite like this, purposely _and_ while not on a hunt or otherwise in any danger. It felt… surprisingly pleasant, all things considered. He did spare a brief, resigned thought for the time he’d have to spend cleaning his boots after this; though fortunately he wasn’t wearing his leathers today. Cloth would at least chafe less on the rest of the walk back to the inn. 

Jaskier had just stared at him blankly for a second or two before catching on, but when he did— the bard’s breath hitched audibly and then sped up, his cheeks blooming red with heat and his bright blue eyes widening as they fixed down at Geralt’s crotch… and just a few seconds later, the sharp, heated smell of Jaskier’s arousal wafted through the air, powerful and urgent. 

_…Oh._

Geralt’s cock twitched eagerly at that familiar heady scent, despite the fact that he was still pissing full-force into his already soaked smallclothes. He hadn’t missed the way Jaskier had started stiffening up in his hand, back up at the castle— though at the time he’d put it down to the bard needing to go so badly. He had tried to ignore his own reaction to it at the time, but now… 

Well, this had just gotten a lot more interesting. 

* * *

Jaskier couldn’t stop staring. 

Geralt was… Geralt was _pissing_ himself. On purpose, in the middle of the street, and while watching Jaskier calmly, no less; to all appearances completely unbothered by the growing wet patches darkening the crotch of his trousers and streaking down his legs, glistening in the last rays of the sun, spreading and dripping and getting wetter and _wetter_ and— 

Geralt sighed again, a quiet, breathy grunt that sent yet another jolt of confused desire through Jaskier’s core. The witcher’s eyes fluttered briefly shut and a little tremor ran through him; then he met Jaskier’s eyes with a crooked half-smirk, seemingly unperturbed by the glances passersby were giving both him and the uneven puddles between his feet. 

Swallowing hard, Jaskier abruptly realized his breathing had gone fast and shallow, _and_ he was getting hard again— and from the considering look Geralt flicked up and down his body he was pretty sure the blasted witcher knew it. Geralt didn’t say a word, though; just turned and started walking again in the direction of their inn as though nothing had happened. Jaskier stared at the wet patches on the cobblestones for a moment longer before hurrying to catch up, unable to stop blushing; nor able to stop wondering if Geralt had possibly _enjoyed_ doing… _that…_ as much as he had seemed to. 

“Why… why did you do that?” Jaskier finally asked after following in silence for a time, his curiosity burning through his own embarrassed frustration with himself. 

Geralt shrugged. “Now it’s not just you. I can bathe and wash my clothes easily enough tonight and I thought it might make you feel better.” Jaskier, for once, didn’t know what to say; but then Geralt continued anyway, a familiar smirk in the witcher’s voice as he added, “I didn’t realize you would like it so much.” 

Jaskier squeaked. 

“I— no, of course not, that’s… I didn’t… I mean—” 

“Yes you did,” Geralt said; and, _oh,_ there was that warmth creeping into the low growl of his voice that Jaskier was _very_ familiar with. “So did I.” 

“You _did?”_ Jaskier blurted in surprise, another hot blush rising in his face. 

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted, glancing at him with eyes that glinted in the gathering darkness. They were outside the city proper now, on the dirt track out to where the inn was, and the road was completely deserted save for the two of them. “It felt good. And… I tried not to think about it, back at the castle, but the way you looked… Squirming and desperate, losing control. I liked it. It was… a lot like watching you come apart when I fuck you.” 

“Geralt…” Jaskier stopped walking, something nervous and excited and altogether too interested swirling through his stomach. “Are you just saying that to make me feel better about it? Because if you _are—_ ” 

Geralt turned and stopped too; then retraced his steps back and pulled Jaskier to him until their hips were flush together. “What do you think?” 

The low rumble of the witcher’s voice was almost a _purr,_ and there was no mistaking that he was already mostly hard, his erection a solid rod of heat pressing insistently into Jaskier’s groin. Jaskier couldn’t quite breathe, his own cock beginning to fill, thickening against his thigh; and a quietly whimpered moan slipped from his lips when Geralt ground against him with a languid roll of his hips. It certainly wasn’t warm any longer, but Jaskier could feel the front of his trousers getting damp and then _wet_ as Geralt’s piss soaked through the fabric onto his skin. 

He knew, logically, he should find it unpleasant, disgusting, a little _off-putting_ at the very _least,_ but…

But he really didn’t. 

“Fuck— Geralt,” Jaskier breathed, swaying a little, leaning into Geralt’s embrace with Geralt’s arms around his back and— 

Geralt thrust against him again, harder, mouth covering Jaskier’s in a hungry kiss and hands tightening on Jaskier’s ass. With a little whimper of need, biting at Geralt’s bottom lip and licking into the heat of his mouth, Jaskier blindly pushed the witcher backwards step by step until they ran up against the wooden fence marking the edge of the field alongside the road. 

“You really did _like_ it, at the castle?” Jaskier asked, breathless with nerves and desire both. Maybe he didn’t have to feel so awful after all about getting hard while Geralt had been holding him, when… 

“Mm,” Geralt grunted, and Jaskier gasped when the witcher’s fingers closed around his cock and squeezed him through his damp trousers. “Made me want to see you lose it completely.” 

Jaskier hesitated, shivering as Geralt worked his cock lazily, tugging and squeezing, rutting slowly against his thigh at the same time. 

“I _do_ have to… go again,” he finally blurted out, flushing. 

“Oh really?” Geralt murmured. The witcher’s bottom lip was caught between his teeth, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled sharply; and Jaskier shivered again at the naked hunger on Geralt’s face, at the eager tension he could suddenly feel in the warm body against his own. 

Jaskier nodded silently, some part of him aghast, _shocked_ at what he was seriously considering; but most of him just… unbearably excited by the prospect of doing something so… so tantalizingly _wrong,_ and so strangely intimate. 

“Go, then,” Geralt said. His hand stopped moving but stayed where it was, still holding Jaskier’s cock lightly through his trousers. 

Lightheaded, breathing fast and shallow, Jaskier closed his eyes, leaned his forehead against Geralt’s, and… _relaxed._

He was fairly certain he would have been far too tense and embarrassed to let go like this under normal circumstances, but the strain of holding on earlier until he’d been _literally_ unable to keep it in any longer had left his poor bladder exhausted and over-sensitive. The need to pee was already much more urgent than it ought to have been after such a short time; and much more difficult to fight than Jaskier was used to. 

But he didn’t _have_ to fight it. 

Jaskier shivered, his breath hitching in a soft whine that was half relief and half surprise at the first trickle of heat that seeped into his already-damp smallclothes; and he tensed up at the quiet, choked noise Geralt made against him, briefly cutting off the flow. 

It took only a second or two before it started up again, though, his body taking over without really consulting Jaskier himself. This time it didn’t stop, and this time Geralt _growled,_ his hand tightening over Jaskier’s leaking cock. He opened his eyes again to find the witcher regarding him with a darkly _heated_ stare, and an embarrassingly shaky, loud moan rose in Jaskier’s throat as he started involuntarily pissing harder. 

Wet warmth flooded the front of his underclothes, running hot down his leg and soaking into the fabric of his trousers, and he couldn’t look away from Geralt’s intense gaze, his breath coming in ragged, uneven little panting whimpers. The painfully powerful humiliation he’d felt earlier at the castle was gone, replaced entirely by a heady elation at the sheer intensity of Geralt’s reaction. The witcher’s golden eyes were thin, bright bands around pupils blown wide and dark with lust and he was hard as steel, grinding jerkily against the front of Jaskier’s hip while Jaskier wet himself. Himself, and _Geralt’s hand,_ which had resumed squeezing and stroking and rubbing at him slowly through his soaked clothing. 

There wasn’t nearly as much this time and it wasn’t all that long before the stream sputtered and died completely after a few last hot spurts of piss; though that might have been partly due to the fact that Jaskier was getting so fucking hard from the whole thing he wasn’t sure he could have kept going even if he _had_ been bursting again. To his slight surprise, he found himself somewhat disappointed that he _couldn’t_ just… keep going, couldn’t keep pissing on himself and Geralt both until he was just as wet as Geralt had gotten, standing in the street casually wetting his trousers while Jaskier watched; but that disappointment was quickly forgotten when the witcher’s mouth crashed hard against his, needy and urgent and demanding, both hands moving to yank Jaskier’s sodden fly open. 

Jaskier groaned, quivering as Geralt pulled his stiff, wet cock out into the open and began stroking him properly. A moment of distracted fumbling at the equally-wet laces of Geralt’s trousers, and then Jaskier had him in hand as well— until Geralt shifted and wrapped his fingers around _both_ of them, fucking into his own tight grip while he pumped them together, his cock rubbing against Jaskier’s with a delicious wet friction that was just barely shy of _too much._

“Fuck— _Geralt,_ ” Jaskier gasped, his chest heaving and a slightly panicked giggle rising to his lips. “Anyone could come by and _see_ us here.” 

“I know,” Geralt growled, and Jaskier’s knees wobbled and heat leapt in his core and he dove back into the sinfully welcoming heat of Geralt’s mouth with a shivering groan at the very _thought_ of being discovered like this. 

That certainly didn’t stop him from dropping both hands down to his witcher’s ass and burying his face into Geralt’s neck with a moan as he got close, mouthing at Geralt’s skin almost frantically, trembling as heat coiled behind his cock and his balls tightened between his legs. 

“Fuck— yes, Geralt— _Geralt—_ ”

Jaskier’s panting, semi-coherent moans turned into a garbled cry that he managed to partly muffle into the warm curve of Geralt’s neck and shoulder, shuddering and twitching as his cock throbbed and pulsed out into Geralt’s fist. Geralt didn’t stop, his whole body tensing and his breathing harsh and ragged in Jaskier’s ear, and Jaskier was _just_ on the verge of pulling away with a wince when Geralt grunted and went rigid, the quick, rhythmic pumping of his hand and hips stuttering into a few final, uncoordinated jerks. 

Jaskier could _feel_ the hot throbs against his spent, over-sensitive cock while Geralt came with a strangled curse, spilling over them both, his chest heaving and his ass clenched tight under Jaskier’s gripping hands. And then they just stood there in the dark of early night, panting, little aftershocks twitching back and forth between them while they slowly softened in Geralt’s loose, and now _extremely_ sticky, grip. 

A giddy laugh bubbled up in Jaskier’s throat and burst from his lips as he pulled back from Geralt’s neck, glancing down between them though there was nowhere near enough light left for his eyes to make out any details. 

“Well that certainly did put a more positive spin on today,” Jaskier said, pressing a kiss to Geralt’s smiling lips with a grin. “Thank you. Though I don’t know _how_ you intend for us to make it to our room without being seen like… _this,_ ” he added with a grimace, nodding vaguely down between them as Geralt finally released them both. The pleasant warmth had faded, leaving him with cold, wet, _itchy_ trousers that were sticking very _un_ pleasantly to his thighs, and he honestly had _no_ idea how much of a mess of come they both were at this point. But it was a fair wager that mess was rather a large one, particularly given the rather generous amounts Geralt typically produced; not to mention the slippery, tacky feel of, well, _everything_ as Jaskier gingerly tucked himself away and laced his probably lost-cause trousers up yet again. 

Geralt grunted, one of his soft, post-coital-bliss grunts. “There’s a back entrance and we already have a room key. But if you’re worried, I can dunk you in the horse-trough before we go in,” he called over his shoulder as he started up the road again. “Just to be safe.” 

“Geralt, don’t even _think_ about— you wouldn’t _dare,_ ” Jaskier yelped in horror, straightening his incredibly rumpled doublet and awkwardly trying to adjust his lute over his shoulder without actually _touching_ it before hurrying after his witcher. “Wait, I— _Geralt!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt wouldn’t actually do that, though. 
> 
> … It might be bad for the horses.


End file.
